The Violet Hour (6 page)

I hear them, then.

Cats
. A plethora of cats. Mewling and calling back and forth in an off-kilter symphony with the night-birds overhead.

I step out of the safety of the moonlight to follow their other-worldly cries.

I hurry closer and closer, their calls growing louder with each step.

In minutes I arrive. They call and twirl, rubbing their furry bodies against a rambling stone cottage.

Could Brighton live here?

It wasn’t squalor precisely, indeed the big beautiful flowers crawling up the bricks painted it quaint, but he seemed too…
grand
for such a small home.

Inhaling deeply, I try to control my frantic heart as I head toward the dwelling.

Hiding in the trees, I wait, but no sign of life, no light erupts at my presence.

Emboldened, I leave the cover of the trees. The cats halt their mewling, staring at my approach.

I freeze. Out in the open, utterly exposed.

One orange striped feline tentatively approaches my leg and sniffs. Its stare meets mine and the world lurches. Its queer yellow eyes looked too deep, somehow, too expressive.

It breaks the contest and pads forward to rub and purr and wind about my leg. I bound toward the window.

I stand on tip-toes to peer through the window.

My breath exhales in relief.
What was I expecting? Cauldrons? Sacrificial animals?

Reluctantly I admit, “Perhaps.”

Two microscopes, ink bottles, parchments and half-eaten plates of food litter a scrubbed wood table. As if Brighton had departed in a hurry.

He obviously had very little, or very poor domestics.

I permit my eye to slide across the open rafters. Odd contraptions hang from the ceiling and are scattered across multiple tables; metal humbugs for which I have no name. Some whirr, some seem to
hum
, but all are unknown.

Emboldened by the silence, I rush to the side door and slide quietly inside.

A metallic pole totters as I open the door and I lunge, catching it before it clatters to the floor. My breath escapes my lips in tiny puffs of flustered panic. One false move will give away my dangerous game of eavesdropping and skulking.

I ease the pole upright, propping it against the wall.

My heart freezes as I register the myriad of glinting silver sparkles interspersed throughout the gloom.

The room is
full
of them—twenty, perhaps thirty, of the silver rods lean against the walls like metallic sentries. I shiver convulsively as I picture them animating and surrounding me, holding me captive till Brighton returns.

A warm tingle begins just below my breastbone. I scratch it. I am ever prone to rashes and itches. Some dangerously so.

“What…are those?”

The breeze creaking through the eaves wakes me from the revelry. My time here is precious.

I fly to the table where two massive, leather-bound volumes lie beside a half-eaten loaf of bread.

The warmth between my breasts intensifies and I flinch. “Ooch.”

I touch the leather cover and blink and I cock my head. A tiny jolt ripples through my fingertips at first contact, but so briefly, I doubt its occurrence.

I stare at the volume and whisper the title, “
Elementi.”

I wrench it open, flipping through pages.

“Tell me everything,”I whisper to it.

My eyes halt, registering a change in the script.

On one page, the usually pristine handwriting denigrates to illegible squiggles.

‘I believe I have found the answer. If I may only find the correct amount of current, combined with the correct chemical composition…all things may be possible. And within my reach.’

Gooseflesh explodes down my arms as I shake my head.

Not witchcraft, I do not think. But it does not sound…natural
.

I pause, holding perfectly still.
Something
has changed in my environment, but all I hear is my heartbeat in my ears.

Silence.
Crickets are quiet. Cats are quiet.

Someone is coming.

I slam the volume shut and bolt toward the window, half-falling, half-scrambling through the frame. My knees scrape the stony ground and I stifle the whimper. I feel the hot rush of blood trickle down my leg and limp over to hunker down in the false comfort of the trees and high ferns.

Light flickers on the cottage and footsteps shuffle inside.

I turn and pick my way through the underbrush toward the beach, not chancing a backward glance.

I press on with my hurried limping; not pausing till my feet strike the bottom of the dingy.

My muscles ache as I franticly row and row, putting distance between me and the words.

“All things may be possible.”

Chapter Five

Silas paces before us, his hands clasped behind his back. “So, I wish you to craft at least three original compositions, choreographed to match Brighton’s impressive light show.”

My eyes tick between Silas and Brighton. The tension in the air is as brittle and volatile as the driftwood lining the beaches. And I suspect one wrong word from either will ignite and combust the façade of calm within this room.

Silas rubs his hands together so fast I fear they will spark and light the atmosphere ablaze.

“Original scores. Understood?” His black gaze zeroes on Brighton.

LeFroy’s body sits rigidly upon the edge of his chair, as if ready to
down
Silas.

I shift uncomfortably and clear my throat. “I
do
love composition, Silas, and I adore what Mr. LeFroy’s done with his pyrotechnics—so it shouldn’t be so very difficult.”

LeFroy shakes his head. Silas seems to comprehend its meaning, but it is lost on me.

“Ah, ah,
ah
, Brighton.” He waggles a long finger. “I need not remind you in front of the lady, of your…
responsibilities
, do I?”

LeFroy’s teeth grind together. “No. Fine. Miss Teagarden—”

“You may call me Allegra.”

The tension in his face lessens a fraction. “Fine. Allegra. I shall meet you this afternoon to begin our assignment. The sooner I might tick it off my growing list of
responsibilities
, the better.”

Lefroy shoots to stand and flings open the door. He strides out without bothering to close it.

Silas tsk, tsk’s to his retreating back. “Temper, temper.”

Silas is not angry, indeed he appears highly amused. He smiles widely at me, but his wide white teeth threaten. “You seem more pleased at the prospect, Allegra.”

I nod.

My pleasure has naught to do with composition.

I will get to spend much time in Brighton’s company. And despite his tempestuous mood swings,
that
is indeed a most pleasurable prospect.

* * *

Brighton

I heard it first and a wave of heat passed over my skin.

My own personal siren call.
Thunder
. My would-be savior and my grim reaper.

Lightning flashes; the sky awakens with bursting white flashes, illuminating the purple backdrop of churning clouds.

I leap out of bed, shaking the cobwebs from my mind.

A bolt strikes close, very very close.

I startle backward and smack my head off the birdcage behind me. Close, too close—six feet from my window the ground hisses and sizzles.

I
feel
his presence before he speaks. A warming sensation, as if I’ve downed a tumbler of fine scotch, trickles from my spine to my fingers to my toes.

I
stiffen
, awaiting the familiar, sing-song voice.

“Brighton. I am come.” His voice from behind the front door.

No use in barricading it. If he wished to enter, he would enter.

I spin, rummaging through my papers on the table, futilely trying to hide the most recent research.

“How? How did you find me again? I was so meticulous,” I say, without turning around.

He gives a quiet laugh, his footsteps walking toward me. “You can run, but you can’t hide.”

Anger scorches my cheeks. I whirl and push past him, loading my arms with the lightning rods.

“If we work together, we might accomplish our goal more quickly.”

My hands shake as I fight the urge to strike and pummel that smug look from his haughty-pointed-face. “Our
goals
, couldn’t be more diametrically opposed.”

He glows, ever-so-slightly, like the warning sky before a storm.

I twist the door knob with my two free fingers, kicking it open with my boot-heel.

“You shall not succeed without me.” His voice is scathing as I shove past him.

I push into the storm, running down the path toward the pond in the center of the isle.

The fireflies descend instantly, gathering and trailing behind me as if I am some ethereal Pied Piper. And predictably, the cats arrive as well, falling in step like the soldiers of the cursed that we are.

I sigh.
Innocent bystanders to my madness
.

Water pounds my head, and I thrust on the hat to divert the waterfall occluding my vision.

I sprint around the pond’s edge, jamming the lightning rods into the mud till they resemble silver turrets guarding the water.

The pool
flickers
; first with reflection of the maelstrom overhead…but soon the skies quiet and the pool’s surface continues to undulate.

A current pops and ripples as an image flits by so quickly, one not ready to see would’ve missed it.

The evening breeze is like a sigh and I wait, holding my breath.

Lightning
flashes
and I count, “One, two, three—” and thunder cuts across, too quickly, drowning away my voice.

“It’s moving away.” Disappointment douses my heart. Each and every time I steel myself, prepare my heart and mind, but always that traitor, hope, finds its way about my defenses.

My knees buckle and I crumple before the poles, gritting my teeth against the pain. I place my hands between them, wishing for the thickened, gauzy air necessary for my quest.

“Brighton, you will not succeed without me.”

I stare at the pool, not giving him the satisfaction of my expression. “Leave me. Now.”

Chapter Six

LeFroy stares out the window, his brow creased in thought. He remains statue-still, as he has for the past quarter hour, oblivious to the late afternoon sun that bathes his face in a beautiful golden-amber.

I stare intently, reveling in the rare opportunity to drink in his features.

His dark curly hair is in need of a cutting and his thin lips turn down as he absently bites the side of his nail, lost to himself. He is not a classic beauty—but the
singularity
of his face demand’s attention.

Not all women would swoon for him. But something about him draws me…makes him utterly irresistible.

The warmth on my chest again. Almost
hot
this time. I struggle not to look down my dress to examine what I imagined to be an inevitable rash, but all I see is the Magnolia pattern—the patch on my dress, lovingly sewn by my mother’s hand.

I banish the thought.
I shall not think on her now
.

Brighton clears his throat, driving away my mother’s ghost and I struggle for words. When he regards me, my tongue seems to shrivel in my mouth.

It is his eyes. They…
speak
. Sometimes whisper, sometimes shout.

They now squint, as whatever vexing scenario playing on his mind continues to dominate his demeanor. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

I clear
my
throat. “So, Mr. LeFroy, shall we discuss the next pyrotechnics show. Or do you think me a mind reader?” I tease, hoping to smooth out those creases on his brow. He is too very young to have such lines already.

I picture running my fingers across them, kissing them away and shake my head.

His blue eyes finally flick to mine. “Please, call me Brighton. And might I call you Allegra?”

I swallow.
Such intimacy
. “Brighton, then. And yes, you may call me Allegra. The
lights
, sir?”

His lips burst into a smile. “I have some ideas, but they’re difficult to put to words. Have you any parchment?”

I nod and walk past him, down the hallway to Sarah’s room. I am suddenly aware we are wholly unchaperoned.

No one in Charleston cares a fig for propriety or my chastity. My heart lurches, pumping a tumultuous wave of excitement and worry through my veins.

Reaching her desk, I rifle through the messy collage of Sarah’s life.

My fingers touch the paper as I feel him, nay,
smell him
behind me.

Woodsy and enticing. I close my eyes and breathe deeper.

“Thank you. Those will do.” He speaks the words gruffly as if filled with emotion and I picture him in bed, surrounded by blankets. And me.